by Amy Lane
A slow smile bloomed over Preston’s face—one that had more “fallen” than “angel” in it.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said smugly.
“I don’t even know what I’m thinking.” Preston’s hands were big and capable, and for a moment Damien was focused on them and the way Preston liked to be touched firmly, without teasing, and how he’d probably touch Damien just like that.
Everywhere. Preston would touch him everywhere.
For once, Preston met his eyes. “I want you in my mouth,” he said. “Some people don’t like the taste of come, but I do.”
Damien almost choked on his tongue, and then all he could do was gape, mouth opening and closing, a terrified and confused fish.
Preston’s chuckle, low and evil, skittered up his spine. “And now I know what you’re thinking for sure,” he said before turning away. Damien wasn’t sure if Preston was letting him get his composure or just didn’t have anything else to say.
Either way he was right—heated images of what the two of them would be like together were now filtering through Damien’s brain, and he had to remind himself repeatedly that just because Preston said he wanted it to happen didn’t mean that it would.
“I’ll sit in the back with the dog,” Preston said cheerfully as Buddy rounded the corner. Damien nodded and hopped into the front of the battered vehicle, relieved when Buddy gave his wife one last lingering kiss and hopped in to drive.
“You look terrified. Did you hear from Glen again?” Buddy said bluntly as he pulled off onto the dusty blacktop and started heading toward town in the setting of a brutal sun. They passed Buddy’s pastureland, where twenty to thirty horses ran in a welcome breeze, separated into pens of three or so. Pretty animals, some of them recently brushed and gleaming, some of them dusty and proud of it. Damien remembered that he’d be riding tomorrow, and a part of him cheered up. He was good with horses, and boy wouldn’t it be fun to be back in that saddle again.
“No,” Damien muttered. “Because that would mean his cell phone wasn’t dying and he wasn’t flying by the seat of his pants.”
Buddy laughed shortly but then looked back to Damien. “So if it’s not Glen, what’s got you so puckered? Life’s too short to eat lemons, boy.”
Without meaning to, Damien glanced back behind them, to the back of Preston’s head as he sat easily in the pickup, Preacher on his lap. He probably loved it back there—nothing but the wind in his ears, no human interaction to bother him.
But Buddy caught the look. “He’s been waiting for you a long time,” he said.
“And he wants me now?” Damien asked bitterly.
“What’s wrong with you now?”
“God, it’s just like talking to Preston,” he muttered. “Except you don’t want to sleep with me!”
“No, I do not,” Buddy laughed. “But I do want to see you boys happy. How long have I known you?”
What was it, ten years ago? Before they’d exited the service, when Glen had first bought the AS350. They’d been on leave and had wanted to take a recreational flight, and Preston had wanted to come with them. Some place the dogs could run, he’d said. Buddy’s airstrip had been on a list of possible landings in Mexico, and boy, Glen had liked the idea of flying out of the country and hiking someplace not Napa. Preston had brought Coop, Preacher’s daddy, and they’d spent two weeks in this little-known part of Mexico, and then a week in a tiny coast town up from Puerto Vallarta. Buddy had been their friend and their fishing buddy and their guide, and when his horses had broken loose from one of his pastures, the three of them had jumped at the chance to help.
Glen had flown up and spotted the horses, and Damien had lowered himself from the chopper on a line and coaxed Buddy’s best mare to a halter and saddle blanket. He’d ridden her back, and the others had followed, and Buddy had been their biggest fan ever since.
The experience had given them the idea for their rescue service, actually, and Buddy had been one of their best contacts when they’d started it up.
Of course the flip side was that he felt compelled to comment on their lives—and that he knew Glen, Damien, and Preston really damned well.
“Too long,” Damien said now in response to his question.
“Long enough,” Buddy corrected. “He had the biggest crush on you ten years ago. It’s not a crush anymore.”
Damien swallowed. “What would you call it now?” he asked, grateful for the wind coming in from their open windows. This conversation would sound unbearably serious if they weren’t shouting over the roar of air in their ears.
“Same thing you feel for him, of course,” Buddy said. “Don’t ask me to spell it out for you, Damien. You’re supposedly grown.”
“He’s Glen’s little brother,” Damien said unnecessarily. “If I fuck this up, I fuck up my whole life.”
Buddy snorted. “Well, if it was anybody else but Glen Echo, that might be the case, but Glen would probably be just fine calling the two of you morons and riding you for screwing up a perfectly good friendship for the rest of your lives. Wouldn’t ditch you as a friend. He just wouldn’t let you forget you somehow managed to fuck up the best relationship you’ve ever had.”
“How would you even know that!” Damien asked, laughing. “For all you know, I’ve got a choice of hot young celebrity chefs and fashion designers just dying to make me their action adventure boy toy!”
“How would I know?” Buddy risked a look at him while keeping both hands on the wheel for the uncertain road. “Boy, that’s the first time since you came down off that mountain that you even tried to entertain me with your foolishness. Now tell me, did you do that healing in your heart all by yourself, or was it getting stuck in the cockpit while that kid worried out the splinter in your heart?”
Damien let out a little bark of laughter. “So that’s a no on the celebrity chef/fashion designer prospect?” he asked just to make sure, but this time Buddy didn’t smile.
“What’s the worst that can happen, Damie? You sleep with your best friend’s little brother and you two complete each other and you don’t have to ever be alone in your hearts again?”
“That’s not awful!” Damien retorted.
“Well, then, why don’t you shoot for that and see what happens!” Buddy told him. “Now, which hotel do you want? The one with the fountains in the middle and the veranda and the four-star restaurant in the quad, or the one that says, ‘I’m getting up at the crack of dawn to trailer horses and then ride them all over Mexico’?”
“Well, if your wife hadn’t just fed us, I’d take the four-star restaurant,” Damien said, disgruntled. “Does the crack-of-dawn one at least have a breakfast place nearby?”
“It does indeed. There’s a diner around the corner. I’ll pick you two up there around eight thirty, and if you’re late, you’ll have to wait for me to eat my chorizo and eggs, because they’re delicious.”
“Will you make us wait for that even if we’re early?” Damien asked, because sometimes that extra ten minutes of sleep could make the difference between a good day and a bad one.
“Probably.”
“Eight thirty-five it will be.”
“Then this is your hotel.” Buddy pulled up to a small set of cottages, worn but repaired, with freshly painted yellow trim. “I’ll wait for you to check in, and if you don’t tell ’em about the dog, they won’t mind about the dog, if you take my meaning.”
Damien did. Especially with one of Preston’s dogs. Preacher was too well-behaved to be a nuisance, and his brindle coat was more guard hair than undercoat, so there was a minimum of shedding.
“I do.” He swung out and went to the main cabin, asking for a room with two queens, which they didn’t have.
Of course they didn’t have a room with two queens.
“A single king-sized?” he asked, not wanting to make a big deal out of this because he’d slept in lots of beds with lots of guys with no sex involved. A mattress and clean sheets was a mattress and
clean sheets—sex only had to happen if the two people involved wanted to see each other naked.
You really want to see him naked.
He wants to taste your come.
Damien shuddered. It was raw and crude, but that’s not how Preston had meant it. He’d been blunt and honest—and making absolutely certain that Damien knew the consent was all in Damien’s court.
“Señor?” The middle-aged woman at the desk smiled warmly at him, and he shrugged.
“We’ll take what you’ve got, darlin’.”
“Good. There’s a bacon-and-eggs place around the corner,” she told him kindly. “And we’ve got vending machines if you need something, and toiletries if you’ve forgotten your own.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I think we’ll be okay.”
He rented the room—the room with the one bed—and went outside to give Preston the key and grab his duffel.
Buddy drove off, and Damien and Preston entered the little room.
“It’s bigger than most hotels’,” Preston observed. The bed dominated the room of course, but there was a small table and a coffee maker in the corner. The walls were stained wood and so was the floor, but a big worn area rug in tan and rose made the place welcoming. Paintings by local artists were on the walls, and Damien had a moment to think this was better than the flop he’d been planning on.
“We usually stay at a crappier place when we’re here,” he said. “I wonder why Buddy didn’t take us there.”
“Because he wanted it to be nice,” Preston decided, and Damien wouldn’t contradict him.
“Maybe.” Damien threw his duffel on the bed. “I’m going to hop in the shower and then study our route. Has Preacher peed lately?”
“I’ll take him out for a loop around the cabin,” Preston said. “I can shower when I get back.”
Fair enough.
Damien brought his sleep shorts and T-shirt into the bathroom with him so Preston wouldn’t accidentally catch him out naked. He was resigned to Preston seeing the leg by now—even the hardworking AC couldn’t counteract the humidity, and the shorts would be more comfortable. Who knew? Maybe the scarring would scare Preston off for good and Damien wouldn’t have to answer the hard question, right? When he emerged from the shower after brushing his teeth, he dressed and set the computer up on the table, then activated Glen’s satellite tracker and tried to figure out where he was.
Preston came in and laid out a towel for Preacher to lie down on, then disappeared into the shower himself.
When he came out, Damien was deeply engrossed in what the spotty internet had to tell him.
“What are you looking at?” Preston asked, startling Damien because he was standing right behind his chair.
“Oh my God—scared me!” Damien turned his head and then swallowed. Preston was wearing sleep shorts and no shirt. My, his bare chest was really… damn.
Instead of backing up, Preston’s hands came down on his shoulders firmly, and he started a warm massage that seemed to loosen up Damien’s back muscles whether he was ready for that or not.
“Are you scared now?” Preston asked courteously, digging his thumb into a stubborn muscle at the base of Damien’s skull.
Damien gave up and melted, helpless and at his mercy. “No,” he mumbled. “I’m interested in where Glen and this Cash kid went, but I’m not scared.”
Preston looked over his shoulder, his face close enough that Damien could feel his breaths. “Where do you think they went?”
“See this spot here on the satellite?” Damien said, pointing a vague finger.
“Yes, it looks pretty. Lots of gardens.”
“Yeah, but there’s no name for it on the map. As far as the map is concerned, the closest thing there is a town that consists of a block of merchants and a block of houses—population maybe three hundred, and most of those are outlying properties.”
Preston grunted. “So what’s that big house with the columns and the garden doing there?”
“That is a very good question. Oh God, Preston, you are sending me right to sleep.”
Because Preston’s fingers hadn’t stopped moving, and Damien was coming undone.
“Well, go lie on the bed and I can do your leg.”
Damien opened his mouth to say no, but Preston rubbed his lips against Damien’s cheek and shut down all of Damien’s words.
“Now, I know you’re going to try to say I don’t need to do this,” Preston told him. “But I want to. And don’t you want me to make your leg better?”
“Where did you learn massage?” Damien asked helplessly.
“I took, like, six anatomy classes, and besides muscle groups, do you know what I learned?” He punctuated this with a solid stroke behind Damien’s ear that sent a humming through his groin.
“I have no idea,” Damien breathed.
“I learned that touch is good.” Preston smoothed his palm along the back of Damien’s neck. “Touch makes everything feel better. It strengthens the bonds between all animals—human and otherwise. Touch is good for both of us. Now move.”
Damien closed his eyes, about all of his resistance to this moment washed away by Preston’s persistence.
He limped to the bed and sat up on it, pillows behind his back, leg extended. Preston went into the bathroom and came out with some all-purpose massage oil and a towel and pulled a chair up next to the bed. He reached out to lift Damien’s leg and Damien tensed, because he’d done this exercise a thousand times and didn’t need help.
Preston gave him an inscrutable look and laid the towel out underneath it, then rubbed some oil between his palms to get it warm.
He leaned forward to smooth the oil over Damien’s skin, and Damien looked away.
“Do you think I’m going to hurt you?” Preston asked, sounding hurt himself as his hands made firm contact with Damien’s sensitive skin.
“No,” Damien muttered. “I just don’t like looking at it.”
Preston’s hands grew more insistent, and he smoothed the oil over Damien’s shin and under his calf, and then again, and again. Damien was conscious of every ridge, divot, and furrow under the skin, into the muscle and bone, that showed how much his leg had lost.
“It’s different,” Preston said, the heels of his hands going to work in earnest on the cramped flesh behind Damien’s knee and his calf. “But not awful. It functions, right?”
Ah! His hands were so warm, so sure. “Barely,” Damien said bleakly. “I’m up to three miles.” He and Glen used to do ten miles together effortlessly, but Damien had made Glen run on his own because he was so much slower now.
Preston worked higher, up past the kneecap, to where the infection had crawled up to his femur. Damien pulled in a breath, because it hurt, and Preston eased the pressure somewhat.
“This one scared you,” he said, running a fearless finger down the inside of Damien’s knee.
“If the operation hadn’t worked, they would have had to amputate,” Damien said. He shuddered. “It was touch and go.”
To his surprise, Preston bent and kissed the outside of the leg. “I would have missed the leg,” he said. “But I would have still kissed whatever spot was there for me to kiss.”
Damien swallowed. Preston was there, so close—his expression intent, his hands sending warm, drugging pulses down Damien’s leg. His muscles were relaxing, melting, and tension drained from him in waves.
He wasn’t sure he was going to do it until he actually saw his own hand, reaching out to cup Preston’s cheek. Preston stayed intent on what he was doing, but he smiled a little and leaned into the touch.
“Nice,” he said. “Now lean back. I’m going to touch you some more. Do I have your consent?”
Damien’s eyes flew open, and he dropped his hand. “Uhm—”
Preston met his eyes, and Damien’s heart slowed to a crawl, every beat loud in his ears. “I promise, Damie, I won’t let anything bad happen to us. Don’t you trust me?”
“How are you going to touch
me?” Damien asked through a dry throat. “Clinically, like this or—”
“Intimately,” Preston told him, no embarrassment whatsoever. “Please?” He bit his lip in an uncharacteristic show of uncertainty. “You look so beautiful.”
All the oxygen in the entire world disappeared. Damien couldn’t draw a breath. He bit his lip too, suddenly shy in front of this person he’d known for years.
“O… okay.” He couldn’t believe it was his own voice.
Preston wiped his hands on the towel he’d brought and rose up off the chair enough to hover directly over Damien. “I’ll start with a kiss.”
Now Damien was the one who couldn’t meet his eyes. He closed them instead and lifted his face, not sure what to expect.
Firm lips moving on his came first, and then Preston’s shaky exhale against his face. Damien gasped, parting his mouth, and Preston made sort of a humming sound, followed by his tongue as he took charge of the kiss in the same way he’d taken charge of Damien’s leg, of the conversation in the plane, of their relationship change from the start.
Confidently, with absolute focus.
Damien hummed back, opening his arms and taking Preston’s weight on top of him as they explored. Preston’s skin slid, smooth and taut, under Damien’s palms, and Preston wasn’t shy about leaning into Damien’s touch or humming with appreciation.
The encouragement worked, the happy sounds, the way Preston undulated against him, and Damien found his own responses growing urgent. Preston moved his hand under Damien’s shirt, exploring his abdomen, his chest, his—oh my God!
“Your nipples are very sensitive,” Preston said with satisfaction, pinching one and then the other while Damien wriggled his hips against the bed in an attempt to stay still.
“You think?” Damien gasped.
“I just said so. What will happen if I suck on one?” Preston was regarding him with curiosity and deep joy.
“I have no idea,” Damien muttered, arching off the bed again. On one level, he was being facetious, but on the most basic level he was telling the absolute truth. As far as he knew, Preston’s mouth against his sensitive skin might send him catapulting off the bed—or worse—it might send his cock into orgasm overload and he’d climax right there.
